


As Remote As The Silver Sea

by dinahwas



Category: Lost Girl
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 13:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9125101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinahwas/pseuds/dinahwas
Summary: AU. 1940's. Bo is an heiress and Lauren, the mystery woman she encounters - where else - at sea. Here for the practice. Lost Girl is owned by Prodigy Pictures and Showcase. If it's ain't fun, it ain't nothin'.





	1. Chapter 1

 

* * *

 

As often as there are tales of love to hit the silver screen, (like some word-slinger's _Lazarus_ stuck on repeat and resurrected over and over from the reject bin of a Culver City back lot,) we, as popcorn addicts, flock hungrily to them anew and over-indulge in a hack writer's black and white view of romance: boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl in the end, big dance number, _swoon_ to black. _Intrepid reader,_ you may sigh either in relief or exasperation for this potboiler is no different from those serial sing-a-longs except that the romance upon which we lightly trip begins with a girl running from a boy before meeting a girl in a place as remote as the silver sea, in a time between time, and as chock full of clichés as a screwball comedy from the old RKO.

But let's not turn our attention to the machinations of a long dead picture studio but to the glamour and guts of this fable, one that begins at this very moment with an immortal femme fatale (dark? beautiful? with a hint of the devil in her walk?) that dines on the lust of unexpecting humans. She travels with her faithful and very human sidekick, a recently retired hoofer from the dance halls of a forgotten Manhattan. Indulge, _if you are willing_ , the lush life of a dilettante with the body of an Auburn Speedster—all fenders and _vroom_ —and the soul of an unwilling poet, professionally lovelorn by nature and, as it relates to affairs of the heart, a very lost girl. Welcome to once upon a time where hearts, like rules, are both made and broken.

 

November 1941

 

“Eighteen months, 14 days, and two and a half hours.” Kenzi rattled it off like a laundry list, her voice calm and disinterested.

Bo looked up from _Pride and Prejudice._ “Non-sequitur much?”

“That’s how long we’ve been having our adventure on the high sea.” She got up to stand, pacing aimlessly the living area of their suite. “…And how long it’s been since we left the best hooch in all five boroughs.”

“So,” Bo dropped her book on the side table with a purposeful thud. “You _can_ count. Let’s have it. You’ve been holding onto this since, since…”

“ _Valparaíso_.” Kenzi’s voice poked at Bo with the sting of the pointed end of a sword.

Bo sat back on the wingback couch, rigid, crossing her arms across her chest, sending an icy stare to her ward. The union between the heiress and the tin pan alley rent girl had been unexpected; and, as many subsequent stories between Bo and Kenzi, theirs began with a bartender named Mickey, Rocco, or Dutch and ended with a hangover with all the pain and punch of a hairpin turn on the Coney Island Cyclone. Bo ran from life, Kenzi to it; it was a match made in, well, heaven, if heaven intersected at the corner of Down-and-Out and 42nd Street.

“You can't run forever, _cookie,_ ” Kenzi continued.

“I’m not running. I’m _discovering_.”

“What exactly? I get the floating buffet of life at sea, I do. I get that there are Seven Wonders of the World—and we’ve seen almost all of them, twice. But all this jitter bugging…” She rushed toward Bo and plopped herself close to her on the couch. “Maybe it’s time to hang up the dance shoes...y'know…go home?”

“ _Fine_ , pick a place. In fact, I’ll buy you a map and wherever the dart lands, we’ll call it home. Then will you be happy?” She looked away, her chin dropping low. “It doesn’t matter. Wherever we go I’m bound to be left, eventually.”

Kenzi threw up her arms. “You make me want to get drunk, vomit, and then drink again. And you’ve been reading too much Jane Austen,” she grabbed the novel and fanned its page before tossing it back on the side table. “You’re mixing up real life with some jagged cliff near a foggy heath. Wake up, Bo! The only person who will never leave you is me.” Kenzi's conscience was a tin can that dented easily and the very moment the words slipped from her mouth, she regretted it. The wince behind Bo’s eyes confirmed that Kenzi had overstepped, even for her. Bo bolted from her side and grabbed a chiffon wrap from the one of the open trunks. There were several in the suite, all open as if they had imploded, scarves and lingerie and gowns spilling out like a hundred colorful tongues.

“Wait, where are you going? Where are _we_ going?”

“It seems to me after eighteen months, 14 days, and two and a half hours you’d know how to find yourself around a ship.”

“Bo, I didn’t mean it. Not that way…”

Bo softened even as she had already made it out to the passageway. “You’re right Kenzi. The world is getting smaller by the day…like our state room." Her eyes flickered blue before returning to their natural brown. "And we’re running out of ports in a storm."

 

***

Chrome. Dark wood. Lighting that provoked mystery or agitation, Bo couldn't decide which. After storming out on Kenzi, she'd made it to the top deck and the dim embrace of the Schooner Bar, a cozy alcove with recessed seating against one wall and a slender wood-topped bar along another, where she sat hoping not to be disturbed. A gorgeous woman alone in an evening gown naturally invited attention and she was quite a _dish_. She favored evening gowns that sashayed the line between indecent and swanky and Bo didn't care a fig who stared or whispered. Lust rose like steam when she entered and for once, her biology annoyed rather than amused her. _Imagine a succubus being jilted at the altar._ But that's exactly what happened on a balmy, mid-summer's night in a Long Island garden abloom with high society guests, and lit by the glow of red Chinese lanterns strung high upon a canopy of branches. She hated the smell of freshly cut grass forever after. That was a long time ago and a harsh but necessary lesson, her grandfather had told her that night, _to never fall in love with a human._ _Stick to your own kind._ Since then, she'd given love the big brush-off, left the island, and took up digs in one of the family brownstones on the Upper East. Her blood ran cool blue but her flesh burned white as the Sahara, leading her to nights south of 49th Street: glittery, clamorous, sometimes neglected, just as Kenzi had been when first they met. _Neglected_. Now that was a word that rolled around her tongue like a pair of dice that always came up snake eyes. Bo nursed her dented heart by venting a coolness toward every encounter or experience—natural, man made, human—with the exception of Kenzi, she refused to care about anything. It became her vocation to slither from port to port without a single string; and she held in contempt any reminders, even accidental ones, that once, a long time ago, she knew love, was convinced of it, was ready to marry a human for it—only to have that dream yanked out from under her black silk stockings.

The melancholy tinkling of a piano echoed throughout the Schooner Bar. The barkeep approached. "What can I get you, miss?"

“Dirty martini. Extra olives,” Bo responded, not ever making eye contact. _And keep 'em coming_ , she mused. She clicked open her clamshell clutch and retrieved a silver dollar coin. She teased it repeatedly between her thumb and middle finger and watched it pirouette on the bar top, encircling the first, second, and third martinis of the evening. Spin and drop. Again. Spin and drop. Each turn taking her farther and farther away from the gravity of her gloom and into the orbit of her own ennui. This low tide sadness made her weary. She thought of herself an ungrateful wretch—the world at her fingertips thanks to her trust fund—and she felt ashamed of herself to have been made a fool on what should have been the overture of a beautiful life. Shame burned into anger and anger, well, made the gin slide like sugar down her throat and fueled her hunger for flesh; and with it, the need to screw this sadness away.

The tug of the ocean made the ship roll suddenly and Bo leaned against her will, hard and heavy, against the bar. She felt the heat of someone's breath before the lump of a body collide onto her back.

"Oh! Hi-de-ho!" a woman's voice sang out in four notes.

The unexpected shove jostled the martini glass out of her grasp, spilling most of its contents on the bar top. Bo turned to give the dame a what-for but was stunned into silence at the sight of the perpetrator: fair-haired, slender, with hooded eyes as mesmerizing as twilight.

The woman looked back at Bo, sharing a similar look of surprise. A wave of yellow hair fell across her cheek, which she brushed behind her ear in a single, sweeping motion with her index finger. She seemed to take that moment to catch her own breath and, while peeking beneath her eyelids, spoke again. "I'm sorry about that. I never seem to quite get my sea legs no matter how many times I sail."

Bo continued to stare at her, her mind as well as her smile, frozen in place. Her eyes slid up and down the woman’s boyish figure and the gentle curves encased in a cream satin gown, ready to be swept away like Ginger into the arms of Fred. She was caught in the haze of this woman's perfume, a sweet scent that transported Bo to an open bazaar somewhere on the streets of Bombay, where she often bought jasmine blossoms by the fistful. In the thick of Bo's sudden and consuming admiration she had forgotten how to speak.

Then the woman did something Bo found extraordinary: she leaned in dangerously close, close enough for Bo to peek down the center of her low-cut gown if she had dropped her eyes instead of keeping them steady with the blonde's. Her arm was toned and bare, Bo couldn't help but notice, as the lithe woman leaned over her and plucked a cocktail napkin from a stack behind the bar. Once retrieved, the woman held the napkin aloft between slender fingertips and stopped momentarily before lowering it to blot the droplets of gin surrounding Bo's glass. Not once did she take her eyes off of Bo. All of this happened in a slow, hypnotic fashion, inflaming Bo's desire as if she were King Herod watching Salome perform the mythical Dance of the Seven Veils.

Few things make the reader stop and pause more than a beautiful woman with long legs and a voice husky from desire, whisky, or luck—and we would be remiss not to give such a woman a past just waiting to be shed one story at a time, allowing us to savor and sip her charms well into the final chapters. However, we are just at the beginning, before secrets are revealed and love has yet to happen. This is the moment of ignition, when infatuation sits down in the stool next to yours and begs to know your name.

The woman broke her gaze to catch the eye of the bartender. "Tequila, please."

"You don't fool around do you?" Air finally returned to Bo's lungs.

“Excuse me?” she asked, less of a polite answer and more of a confirmation that the voice she heard wasn’t one merely in her head.

Bo pointed at the bartender who was busy pouring a shot. "Tequila—pretty strong stuff."

The blonde lowered her chin and pointed to the coin in Bo's hand. "And you, you're a gambler...like in the movies, you know?”

Bo heard laughter in the woman’s voice.

The woman mimicked a two-bit hustler, a Chicago gangster, _“I'm feeling lucky, Jake. Put the goods on red 19.”_ She pretended to toss craps and made a clicking sound with her mouth. _Click-click._

They stared at each other, the blonde pleasantly smiling. Bo was all but lost to her. “Are you drinking to remember or drinking to forget?”

The woman answered with a slight sideways tilt of her head and a smirk that said, _a woman doesn't kiss and tell._ She then took the drink set before her and swallowed the shot in one swift motion, barely wincing, even after she sucked down a lime. She tapped her fingers on the bar top, signaling that she wanted another.

"Your drink choice. I'd expect it of a sailor not from a lady." Bo moved in closer, allowing her fingers to graze the woman's hand slightly, subtle enough that it could be interpreted as unintentional.

"There's a little beach town about an hour south of Tijuana. You won't find it on any map and you can only get there by jeep…" She glanced upward, traces of something warm and far away lit her eyes, perhaps the law was involved—definitely something forbidden—and she'd somehow managed to escape it. Then the glow of nostalgia dimmed as quickly as it came. She gave Bo a low smile and arched a brow. "But that's a story for another time."

A group of women noisily entered the lounge, caught in the middle of a funny story. Bo and the beautiful woman beside her turned to observe the gaggle of girls, stumbling in red with laughter. There was recognition in their eyes: _There you are, come sit here_ , they beckoned like hens, choosing a velvet corner as their nest. The tequila-drinking woman waved back and said to them, "Give me a second."

She turned her face to Bo and Bo could see that the color had returned to her cheeks.

Bo spoke first, nodding her head towards the lovely women settling in for cocktails. “I guess my luck just ran out. Looks like you’re wanted.”

The blonde peeked back at her friends, inciting more laughter, and then looked back at Bo. She smoothed her hand over Bo’s and took the coin. "Perhaps another time… _you’ll get lucky."_

She walked away knowing as all beautiful women do that she was being watched, every step deliberate and true. No starlight is ever wasted, not even as it disappears into the dawn.

“Wait,” Bo called to her, “tell me your name.”

The woman did not turn to answer and kept walking, not towards her friends, but out the double doors of the lounge. Bo looked over to the corner. Her friends hardly noticed, the gin between them flowing like a fountain.

Bo felt warm. Everywhere. And there was still a bit of martini in her glass. Bo hoovered the remaining drops and winced as it tickled her throat. She had already hopped off the stool when the doors banged open once again.

“Oh no you don’t!” Kenzi stormed towards Bo, coming to a halt only inches away. “Never go to sleep mad and we’re mad at each other. I say, let’s go to sleep drunk. I forgive you. I forgive me. Forgive and forget – what d’ya say? And I’d like two of what she just had,” she shot out towards the bartender. Kenzi put a palm to Bo’s chest pushing her back down on the bar stool. “You and I have been sailing too long together.” She spit on her palm and extended it toward Bo. “Truce?”

“You know I hate it when you do that.”

“It’s an oath. Not a blood oath because I don’t cut myself for anyone.” Her hand was frozen in mid-air waiting for Bo to take it. Finally, Kenzi grabbed Bo’s hand and forced it into a handshake.

“There,” Kenzi laughed, “now we’re made up.”

The bartender slid over two martinis which Kenzi drank in quick succession. “One little martini,” she emptied the first. “Two little martinis.”

Any hope of chasing after the mysterious woman who had the fragrance and mystery of a tropical garden was gone. If she was going to drown her sorrows, she may as well sink to the bottom in the arms of her best friend. Wearily, she sat back down. “Kenzi,” she relented, “if we’re going down the road of gin and spit, let’s at least take our time.”

“You got it, sister,” Kenzi smiled and turned to the bartender. “Four more, my friend!” She spun around on the bar stool twice before she noticed the glazed look in her friend's eyes. Kenzi looked at the door and then back.

"Who was that long tall Sally?" Kenzi asked.

Bo shrugged. "Not sure." _But I'm going to find out._

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure where this is going. Possibly a series of one-shots. I'll update when I can or fi I get really awesome prompts from you guys. Just a bit of happiness to help ease the treachery that is the demise of Lost Girl.
> 
> I own nothing except the order of words, the typos, and the occasional flights of fancy.

Even without both their suitcases and steamer trunks crowding the floor, their cabin felt like the smallest on the ship. Theirs was a single room containing two double beds, a small writing desk, an armless desk chair, and a chaise lounge upholstered in a fabric that could only be described as unfortunate. Maybe because both blondes turned heads on the decks and gangways, or maybe because they shouldered a little rank on their Navy whites: Tamsin and Lauren knew luck when they saw it; and the little balcony instead of a porthole was as good as a four leaf clover. Still, Tamsin felt the room close in with each toss of the coin.

The whoosh of an object flying in the air.

The smack of flesh against flesh.

And on and on it repeated without end.

By itself, the rhythmic slapping shouldn't have distracted Tamsin but it did. The incessant flip-smacking was like the proverbial dripping sink; Tamsin skated on the edge of her patience, what little she even had. Her roommate's self-hypnosis dashed any hope that this little adventure on the good ship _Liberté_ would provide some respite to the doom and gloom anchored around Lauren's heart.

Lauren's attention seemed nowhere and everywhere as she lay on her bed, still draped in a silver floor-length evening gown. In profile, she evoked a strange elegance: a cross between an heiress that had just stepped from the canvas of a John Singer Sargent portrait and—as the coin spun in the air—a blonde bombshell on the lam from the mob, the law, or both.

_Flip, smack, flip, smack, flip, smack!_

Tamsin, tall statuesque Tamsin, blonde Tamsin, long and white and treacherous and stunning as the ice-covered oceans of the Arctic, Tamsin. Her wit ran a cool ten below zero, and her eyes shimmered blue and deep like sapphires. When they first met, Lauren gasped at her nearly flawless beauty; then Tamsin spoke and she had a mouth like a sailor, a beautiful yet filthy mouth. That Lauren found the woman to be impatient, deliberately detached, and prickly—and still wanted to be friends with her, cemented Tamsin's loyalty to the other blonde. She stood in front of the vanity curling her lashes and decided that Lauren's incessant fidgeting had to stop. "Lewis!" she called out, holding the lash curler to her eye. When she didn't get a response, she shouted even louder. "Lewis!"

"What?" _Flip, smack._

"Stop being pathetic. _Heads or tails,_ it's not gonna change. You're working my last good nerve."

The blonde sat up. "What are you still doing here? The gang's at The Schooner."

Tamsin flipped off the bathroom light and entered the room in the mini silk robe she'd picked up in a street stall along the Singapore River. She discarded it as she eased a gown off its hanger and began to dress. "You're in early."

"It's the same, isn't it?"

"For you, maybe," she smirked as she began to shimmy into her evening gown. "There are plenty of willing sailors at sea. You know, Tijuana is ancient history," she said sullenly, referencing the saddest chapter yet in Lauren's young life.

Lauren shrugged, rolling the coin between long fingers.

Tamsin lowered her eyes at her friend. "A girl's gotta eat."

"A girl's gotta _love."_

"Love is a pain in the neck," Tamsin answered with a bit of acid on her tongue.

"So that's it?" Lauren answered, stilling the coin. "We're just food?"

Tamsin cocked an eyebrow. "I'm not even going to dignify that, _Doc._ You're my friend, and I know I'm fae, but I would never treat you like _that._ We've had this discussion years ago."

"Yeah, and it ended with me being right and you being wrong."

"Wrong. It ended with you being drunk and me busting you out of the _hoose gow…_ and, you're welcome."

"Thank you, Officer Slamsin."

Lauren set the coin on the night stand that split the two beds, sitting up and planting both feet on the floor. Tamsin stepped toward her, stopped, then turned her back to the bed. Lauren stood and zipped Tamsin's dress the rest of the way up, slapping her hip when she was done.

"So," Lauren sighed. "I'm sure the girls are wondering where you are."

Tamsin crossed over to the desk, putting on the finishing touches: a bangle bracelet, earrings that danced in the light, a soft spray of perfume along the nape of her neck. "Let them wonder."

"Oh, no, Tamsin. You're not—"

Tamsin inspected her reflection in the mirror hanging over the desk, her features steely, strong. "Don't say another word, Lauren."

"Not the _butter bar_ who's been following you around like a lost puppy?" she laughed.

Tamsin spun around with her arms out, searching for Lauren's approval. "Dyson, and he's a friend…for now. Can't two people become friends?"

Lauren gave her a thumbs-up but her brown eyes rolled with faint approval. Her voice lowered and slowed as if all the cheer had been sucked out of it. "Not at sea, Tamsin. Not on a ship on its way back home. Just be careful…or _don't."_

The platinum blonde froze in front of her reflection before turning slowly and returned to Lauren's bedside. She sidled up to her, reaching for Lauren's hand, patting it gingerly. "It's been—what—two years now, Lauren…stop beating yourself up. You did everything you could. Nadia's number came up. Not everyone can be saved."

Lauren eased her hand out of Tamsin's.

Tamsin took that as her cue and stood, her eyes still fixed on her friend's. "She'd want you to be happy; she really would."

Lauren exhaled into a smile. She leaned to the side table and retrieved the coin. "Okay. I get it. Now, get out of here and try not to break anyone's heart. Especially yours."

Tamsin crossed the tiny expanse of their room. She thumped her chest with the palm of her hand. "Impenetrable steel. Don't wait up." And just like that, smiling a Cheshire Cat grin, she was gone leaving Lauren alone, alone as the white foam bobbing on a dark sea.

 

~~~

How many times had they circled this deck; Kenzi lost count but she knew it was late, later than she wanted to be out here, without food or vodka to sustain her.

"So _Jean Harlow_ gave you the brush off two nights ago. It's not like you to play with your food this way…and it's just food, right?"

Bo's eyes searched the deck for any sign of the woman who'd taken her lucky dollar and a piece of heart, though she'd not liked admitting it.

"Say there, Bo, I've just about run out of gas." Kenzi eased her hand out of Bo's elbow and came to a full stop.

"Stop with the hard boiled, Kenz. You got somewhere to go?"

"I haven't worked a deck this hard since I shincracked at The Savoy during Fleet Week."

Bo laughed. "You were the duckiest but those days are way behind you now, _toots._ Onward and upward."

"I'm serious. We've been on this stakeout for a couple of hours, already. Think we can take a breather? Preferably with three fingers of Four Roses and a water back?" Kenzi pouted her lips and blinked her baby blues, pleadingly.

"You go on, Kenzi. I think I'll wander for a bit," Bo smiled, pulling the fur lined collar of her coat close around her neck.

"You sure?"

"You go freshen up. I'll see you for dinner."

Kenzi shook her head and took a few steps toward the doors leading inside the ship. "Don't be late. You know I hate sitting by myself."

 

Dinner had gone off without a hitch. In between the two lobsters she devoured, Kenzi trilled on and on about the bandleader she'd run into on her way back to their state room. She'd heard the tinkling of ivories in the dining room and had decided to take a peek. He was skimming the keys playing a flirty little vamp for a nice looking blonde—all neck and gams—as she tapped her fingers on the top of the baby grand, taking the tune through its paces. "This is your intro," he had instructed. "I'll bring in the woodwinds and then the brass…give me the sign and I'll take it back a couples of bars…then it's all you. Think you can handle that?"

The woman nodded. "It's been awhile but I think I can follow your lead."

"Wanna try a few bars?" the piano player had asked her.

"Sure," she nodded, her feet tapping along with the syncopated rhythm he started to play.

Kenzi had been leaning against a tall cocktail round when the ship leaned suddenly, throwing her off balance. The ballroom door behind her swung and slammed noisily just as she knocked over a glass vase, sending it crashing to the floor. They both spun to look at her. Kenzi immediately caught the eye of the man at the piano bench. She had felt as if she'd been tagged "it" in a game of hide and seek. She felt her temperature rise almost instantly.

"You okay there, 'Lil Mama?"

Kenzi had been so fixated on the dreamboat in high-waisted trousers legging it toward her that she didn't take notice of the woman he'd abandoned at the piano a few feet away, nor paid much attention when the same woman made some excuse to cut out of practice early.

Without taking his eyes off of Kenzi, he called out to the retreating blonde. "The first set starts at 9, Miss Lewis. You're a natural." He now seemed to be speaking right to Kenzi. "You're gonna knock 'em dead."

"I hope you're right, Hale. See you tonight."

"And that's how we met…clumsy old me," Kenzi droned on as Bo sat across from her nursing a martini.

"Here, I thought you got lost on your way back to our room," Bo sucked on an olive.

"You remember I told you about _Hannah Brown's_ up in Harlem? Hale invited me, well, us, to sit in on a set there when we get back to New York." Hale had told her the places he and his band shook the walls. _New Year's Eve at The Cotton Club. The night Hale toasted Joe DiMaggio right after the Yankees swept the Reds to win the World Series._ _The Roseland Ballroom._ Kenzi knew at the time she was swooning but decided not to give a damn.

"Just wait until you hear him swing," she said to Bo. "And not just any jook joint beaters…he's in a real band with tuxedoes and everything. I tell you, Bo, if I was Count Basie, I'd be worried."

Bo nodded intermittently to keep Kenzi afloat in her gusher of a monologue that had her stringing stars at the mention of Hale's charms. She was happy for Kenzi's distraction, which only made her ache for the mystery woman more profound. Bo was starting to think she had imagined the whole encounter; after all, how big could this boat really be? She'd explored all the first class decks just for the chance of seeing her again. Her interest was inexplicable; she'd been in the presence of beautiful women before but this one she couldn't shake, wouldn't shake, and the smallest recollection of her inspired the taste of cold strawberries on Bo's tongue and her heart to twist into a tight little knot. No tonic existed that could quell this yearning. If indeed, she had not conjured this vision, then there could only be trouble ahead if they ever did meet—of that, Bo was certain.

_"Viceroys. Chesterfields?"_ A woman's voice broke through the haze of Bo's reverie.

Bo looked up to find a pair of seamed stockings holding up a perky powder puff girl, lit up by a smile as bright as the Fourth of July. Bo swallowed hard.

She chewed her gum lazily, flapping her lashes like Betty Boop.

Bo spied her name tag. "Crystal, huh?"

She nodded and tossed back a bob of blonde waves with a nod of her chin. Crystal flashed her pearly whites. "See something you like?"

When Bo didn't answer, Crystal leaned forward with the cigarette tray that was strapped to her front, giving Bo a clear view of not only her wares but also the _casabas_ threatening to bust the bones on her corset. "Junior Mints? Chiclets? Lucky Strike?" she said, drawing out the word _lucky._

Bo leaned her lips into the blonde's ear. "I don't typically strike out, honey."

Crystal straightened up, and pushed her shoulders back. "Good to know, miss…miss..?"

" _Dennis_ …but you can call me—"

"—Bo!" Kenzi butted in.

"What?"

"There he is!" Kenzi pointed at the band leader in white tie and tails leading in the band. Soft applause bubbled through the dining room as they took their places on the bandstand. Kenzi pivoted in her chair, taking notice of the Rosie-the-Riveter in a short skirt hovering a bit too close to her best friend. "Hey blondie, _scram_. She ain't interested."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that, lady." Crystal winked sideways at Bo. Kenzi made her disgust known with a Brooklyn raspberry.

Bo sensed the tension rising between the two women. "No need for daggers, ladies. Crystal, I'll take a box of mints." Bo handed her a large bill. "Keep the rest."

Crystal slipped the fifty into her bosom as Kenzi gave her the cold shoulder. She held out a box of mints and as Bo was about to take them from her hand, Crystal moved in closer. "I'm off at midnight. Deck 10. Starboard side near the lifeboats. That is, if you're feeling lucky."

"That dame is only after the lettuce. I can spot a flim-flam from a mile away and that flat-foot floozie's got the floy-floy." Kenzi's eyes burned into Crystal's backside as she moved away and zig-zagged through the ballroom.

 

The lights dimmed and pretty soon the entire room swooned, swayed, and floated to _Hale Santiago and his Sirens of Swing._ It was all _honey bees_ and _bebop_ and the dance floor bounced with both the elegant and the clumsy. Bo turned down her fair share of requests to take a spin with the random Jake in a starched shirt, opting instead to slowly lose her wits over a bottomless Negroni and the sight of Kenzi's pitter-pattering heart whenever Hale turned and smiled at her. She'd been hosting a silent pity party for a greater part of an hour when the band stopped playing, and Hale sat down at the piano, rekindling the memory of when Kenzi first eyed him that afternoon in the ballroom. The song was decidedly bluesy and romantic. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said as the keys came alive at his touch, "we'll be taking a short break but before we do…I have a little surprise.

"One of the passengers on board stumbled upon us as we were rehearsing and asked if she could sit in on a set. She belted out a few notes and that was it. We knew we had a ringer," he smiled into the darkness of the room. "One song, she said…maybe after you give her a listen you can convince her to sing two."

A second spotlight slowly appeared revealing a fair haired chanteuse draped in a simple sheath, so elegant and fair that the room went silent at the sight of her.

"Ladies and gentleman, please give a warm welcome to Miss Lauren Lewis."

Bo gasped. "Kenzi, that's her."

"Who?"

"Her," Bo stared at the woman beside the piano.

"Her, _her?_ From The Schooner Bar _her_?"

Bo nodded. She started to stand. "I've got to get down there."

Kenzi grabbed her by the wrist. "Bo-bo. Wait. Look around you."

All motion in the ballroom had stopped as every eye, every ear focused entirely on the blonde nightingale that seemed to radiate her own moonlight.

"Right," Bo answered as she plopped back into her chair, fully entranced and mesmerized by the velvet voice and the wondrous way she claimed the room with her song.

_It's not the pale moon that excites me,_ she began, her voice betraying hints of a real and palpable sadness. _That thrills and delights me, Oh no. It's just the nearness of you…_

By the song's conclusion, she'd wrapped the entire room around her little finger and the ballroom exploded with appreciation. She smiled a tight little smile, her cheeks reddening from the attention. Bo noticed one corner that seemed to clap a little louder, that whistled like wolves— _how rude,_ she thought, until Bo realized that the corner housed the noisy gaggle of girls she'd encountered the night she first met Lauren. As soon as Hale escorted Lauren off the stage and over to her friends, the room buzzed with talk about her.

_Who is she?_

_Where did she come from?_

_My God—she's a looker!_

_How have I not danced with her yet?_

Bo sat motionless, just staring, as a swarm of gentle and not so gentlemen gathered around Lauren, blocking Bo's view of her.

Kenzi snapped a finger in front of Bo's frozen expression. "Bo!"

"What is it?"

"Are you just going to sit there while these monkey suits go after your girl?" she grinned. "We've only been searching for days--go get her!"

Bo rose and made a bee line to Lauren, pulsing the two-row deep circle of Eddies and Jimmies standing between her and the woman who'd shot an arrow to her heart (hey, it's a fable and these things happen!) As if on cue and by her touch, the crowd parted until the only person Lauren could see before her, was Bo.

Bo extended a hand to her, holding it aloft, waiting for Lauren to take it. Lauren looked into Bo's eyes and then to Bo's slender arm, reaching towards the blonde like a promise. The moment had gone on a second too long and Bo, in spite of her nature, began to doubt herself. Lauren had yet to smile at her. Maybe she did, indeed, imagine a mutual attraction, and she'd been wrong. Bo took a step back, feeling her heart sink into her stomach; then she felt it, skin on skin, and fingertips lacing between hers.

Lauren revealed her dimples and the diamonds in her smile. She stepped closer. "You've come to my rescue."

Bo leaned back to get a good look at the woman beside her. She nodded, yes.

Lauren squeezed Bo's hand and closed the distance between them. "What took you so long?"

With a firm grip, Bo led her through the labyrinth of tables, through a throng of zealous admirers, and spirited them out into the cool air of a deserted deck, hoping with every breath that if this was a dream, may she never wake up, may she never meet morning, may this night, like the rush of excitement that coursed through her veins, be everlasting.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to KRAVN who just makes everything better. Seriously, the best BETA ever and superb friend to boot.

* * *

Lauren had a vision of love she'd carried far too long even for her own liking, one that had started a little like this night: a stranger on an isolated deck, a fellow seafarer alone, and staring absently at the black water. The moonlight glanced along every exposed surface and breathed a shiny glow on everything it touched including Lauren's heart; this, she handed to Nadia from that night on and around the world for both a lifetime and a moment. A little over a year later, her beautiful Nadia became ill. It didn't appear serious at first, no more than the seasonal flu—a flu that worsened and sapped her strength and landed her in the hospital.

"I want to feel alive until the very last second. Promise me that," she had asked Lauren from her bed in the officers' hospital.

One night— _let's make it New Year's Eve_ —when everything feels like the beginning. The hospital ward where Nadia laid was deserted. Her caretakers clustered around the nurses' station for a cup of cheer. It was now or never. Lauren stole a canvas officer's tent – and Nadia – from the winter of that military hospital and drove day and night and night into day until they crossed the Mexican border. She set up the stolen tent on a high dune facing the Pacific and decorated it as if it were a palace, adorning it with plump pork-belly pillows and fake fur blankets befitting a sultan, along with a pair of rough, weather-beaten Adirondacks that she'd haggled from a dusty Tijuana flea market. Nadia couldn't get warm, even there, and Lauren tucked a blanket tight around her thin body as they made plans about their future, speaking them aloud to the thunderous surf. She fed her and bathed her with hand towels dipped in perfumed water, and carried Nadia hip-deep into the surf when she could no longer wade in on her own strength. Lauren had never imagined a truer love than this one, staged on that deserted strip of beach. She sang Nadia to sleep when the morphine no longer soothed her pain and at the end of it, her lover's eyes slowly closed like the final page of a beloved book, with Nadia's grip slipping from Lauren's hand just as the moonlight – straining for its last note of magic – surrendered to morning. Tamsin caught up with Lauren weeks later, too late of course, to comfort her best friend or to bury Nadia; but in time to free Lauren Lewis from a Tijuana jail cell and conjure a reasonable explanation as to why a decorated naval officer should spend the night downing several bottles of Mescal while wailing chorus after chorus of _I'll Be Seeing You_ to a barn full of frightened sheep.

To fall in love again – _like that!_ – seemed farfetched until this very pretty stranger took her hand and led her from the ballroom into the breezy Pacific air. Ironically, courtesy of Hale Santiago and his Sirens of Swing, the easy strains of _Moonlight Serenade_ carried from the ballroom and into this phantasm of perfection. Here she was again, traversing yet another lonely deck. The taste of possibility prickled her tongue and she was breathless and careless and yes, dear reader, spellbound.

They walked wordlessly, chaperoned by the soft tapping of their heels against wood. Bo and Lauren stepped together awkwardly, as disjointed as the tweets and tuneless glissandos of an orchestra warming up. Nerves kept Bo from forming anything coherent to say aloud. She reached for Lauren's hand several times before finally entwining their fingertips together as the breeze fluttered the hems of their gowns. If there was a moment so full and silent at once, this was it. "How long have you been a singer?" Bo asked barely breathing.

"What you witnessed was both my professional debut and final public performance."

"I'm sorry to hear that. But why? You're so beautiful." A lump caught in Bo's throat. "I mean _your_ _voice_ is beautiful."

Lauren turned her head away slightly. "You think I'm joking but I assure you, my singing is typically confined to the shower."

Bo side eyed Lauren. "Lucky shower."

"I heard that," Lauren laughed and with that low, sweet sound, Bo fell further into her thrall. _This is new._

"So, are you going to tell me your name or do I have to bribe it outta you?"

"You're being soppy," she said softly. Lauren stopped and grasped the railing with both hands, deeply inhaling the salt in the breeze.

"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, Miss…Mrs…"

The officer hesitated. "It's Miss Lewis…Lauren. Not yet a _missus._ Came close once but things didn't quite work out as planned."

"Well, Miss Lewis, someone else's loss is my gain." She held out her hand. "Miss Ysabeau Dennis. Of the Long Island Dennises. But if you're a pal, then the name's Bo. Just Bo."

"A pleasure," Lauren laughed taking her hand. "I'm afraid my blood isn't as blue as yours, Miss Dennis of the Long Island Dennises. I'm more of the small town gal variety."

"Well, wha' d'ya know? The girl next door."

"Guilty," she smirked dropping her chin.

Bo valiantly suppressed the swoon threatening to clip her at the knees. "With big dreams. _"_

"I've had a few."

"Care to share, Miss Lewis?"

"Well," Lauren pushed off the railing and slowly walked forward.

"You know, you could show The Andrews Sisters a thing or two." Bo followed closely at Lauren's heels.

Lauren hummed her thanks.

"And yet…you won't sing anymore."

"I had my chance."

"I'm not following you," Bo said, her confusion obvious.

Lauren caught herself before too much truth spilled from her mouth. She sang this night to make good on a final promise made to Nadia, to not allow grief to silence her voice. Nadia dared her to sing in front of an audience and made Lauren swear that one day she would. Nadia had been a great love, briefly, and that was more than most suckers got in a lifetime. Attraction, such as the one that made palms sweat and stomachs quiver, was not only difficult to dismiss but also worrisome—especially since the object of her attraction, this unexpected and wonderful Miss Dennis—glided around her every resistance towards romance with expert finesse. She changed directions with a content expression on her face. "Someone I knew very well, used to love to hear me sing."

"And let me guess, that last song was for him."

" _Her,_ actually." Lauren looked away, waiting for Bo to offer an excuse to unexpectedly force their parting. _A train to catch. A wig to wash._

Bo hardly blinked. "Is that your almost missus?" she answered, giving her a half smile and regarding Lauren with greater appreciation.

"In a roundabout way…" Lauren's gaze trailed to the black horizon, smiling to herself that being truthful didn't chase the woman away.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to pry. You know, I was practically a missus, too," Bo tried to sound cheerful. Lauren's smile reappeared, with curiosity, too; and Bo continued.

"There I was, in a gown made of diamonds. In front of a gang of Astors and Vanderbilts—assorted Knickerbockers from the Social Register. Had a champagne fountain ten feet tall, an ocean of lobsters thermidor, oysters flown in from Tomales Bay," she said throwing her hands in the air. "And the house orchestra from the Edison Ballroom! The Dennises spared no expense."

"That sounds perfect."

"It was spectacular," Bo shrugged. "Or it would have been. The groom was a no-show."

"Oh dear," Lauren grimaced. "I'm making you sad, aren't I?"

"No, no, Lauren. You're having quite the opposite effect." Bo moved closer to her with quick steps and a soft smile dangling from the corner of her lips.

Lauren exhaled in return.

"Besides," Bo continued, "had it all worked out, I wouldn't have met you." In that moment, Bo couldn't think of anywhere else she'd rather be than trailing behind Lauren Lewis, awash in her mysteries and the tropical flora of Lauren's perfume. "If you were my sweetheart I'd never let you out of my sight."

"I wouldn't have taken you for clingy," Lauren flirted over her shoulder.

"Have a drink with me."

"I hardly know you," she laughed.

Bo clutched a palm to center of her chest, blinking her dark brown eyes slowly like an upside-down kewpie doll. "I am a jilted woman, Miss Lewis. You can trust me completely."

Lauren peered sideways but said nothing. A hint of amusement tugged at the corners of her mouth.

"Isn't saving you from a marauding band of pomaded _Fitzgeralds_ proof enough that I'm perfectly harmless?"

"Perfect, yes," Lauren answered affably. "Harmless remains to be seen." Lauren's throat parched as she allowed her imagination to run rampant, to linger over the lengthy peninsula of Bo's curves and shadows, the wind combing through the thickness of the woman's dark hair. From the time she had taken her hand, Lauren studied Bo's figure as one would a classical work of art, which in her somewhat besotted mind, she was: Hellenic, polished, and intoxicating by any standard—as flawless as a human being could possibly be. The pull Bo had on her was startling, unexpected, and not solely because of the woman's obvious, physical charms. She radiated a palpable magic that, with very little effort, persuaded the despair and guilt that Lauren carried since Nadia's death, to vanish. This moment – the stars, the sea, the teasing overtures – was either a hallucination or a Paramount romance that could be had for nickel and a tub of popcorn.

Bo noticed Lauren shiver slightly. She stopped to remove her mink coat and draped it over Lauren's shoulders. Lauren at first refused. "You don't have to…"

"Let me," Bo smoothed the lush coat over Lauren's shoulders.

"And what about you?" Lauren argued.

"Nonsense," she said matter-of-factly, taking a hold of Lauren's hand and nestling it into the crook of her elbow. "Let's take another lap around the deck, wha' d'ya say?"

* * *

Without realizing how they'd gotten there, the two women found themselves at the uppermost deck, a flight above and quite alone. The wind jostled. Taut ropes whipped against wood and hollow metal. Lauren's wheat-colored hair frothed in the humidity and in the light spray of the sea. There was silence and stillness, too; and Lauren allowed herself to feel giddy over that. She leaned her elbows on the railing and faced into the breeze; Bo stood steadily beside her.

"I think if you were any more beautiful than you are right now, I'd have to kiss you." Bo said quietly, moving as close to her side as she could without actually touching.

"Flatterer," Lauren stared ahead, exposing the length of her neck with a tilt of her head.

"I only speak the truth." Bo leaned in and peeled the collar of her coat exposing an inch of skin. Lightly, she brushed the tip of her nose there and inhaled delirium. The shudder was unmistakable. She waited for Lauren's rebuke. "Cold?"

Lauren shook her head.

"Warm?" Bo tugged the collar to reveal more of her, and traced the tips of her fingers on that small patch of skin.

Lauren nodded.

"Shall I go on?"

It was then that Lauren turned in Bo's arms and looked directly at her, leaning in as the wind and the anticipation of pleasure whipped them closer together.

Just as their lips were about to meet, Lauren held up her hand. "Wait."

"What is it?" Bo held Lauren close.

"Fast," she eked out her a breathless reply. Her heart raced painfully in her chest. "I'm not usually…"

Bo stepped back a pace. "Did I do something?"

"No, no! You're perfectly fine." She reached out briefly but inevitably retracted her slender hand.

"Next you're gonna say, ' _It's not you, it's me.'_ " Bo stepped backward.

"No, not at all. I'm attracted to you. Believe me. It's just that it's been awhile since anyone looked at me the way you do." Lauren tugged Bo's coat tighter to her chest. "It's a little…overwhelming."

Bo nibbled the tip of her thumbnail, pivoting half way around abruptly. Her succubus wanted to come out and play. She squeezed her eyes shut, and took two heavy breaths, in and out, forcing her blue eyes back to brown before turning again to face Lauren. "Miss Lewis. I accept your challenge."

"Excuse me?"

"You want to be wooed properly. Very well then." Bo stretched to her full height, her chest rising and falling softly as she pondered her next move. "Miss Lewis, would you allow me to see you again? To escort you to dinner?"

Every muscle in Lauren's slender body tingled. She didn't hear another word. She focused intently on Bo's mouth and froze inside as ever so slowly, Bo leaned forward, lifted Lauren's fingertips, and landed a courtly peck on the back of her hand. Bo had closed her eyes, partly in something close to ecstasy and the other half? The definite and slow rise in hunger for chi. Then, with uncharacteristic restraint, Bo gently released Lauren's hand, and pulled away turning slightly to hide her eyes. Again.

Bo sighed, careful to keep her eyes closed at least a second longer. "I hope I'm not being too forward, Miss Lewis."

Lauren inhaled to steady the heart beating wildly in her chest. She wanted to give in. "You make me feel things, Miss Dennis."

"Good things, I hope." Bo reached for Lauren's hands and pressed their temples together. "I know you may think I'm a lunatic for saying this, but I'd like for us to be more than just a shipboard romance."

"Thanks, I think."

"What I mean is, I'm not a sailor at sea looking to get lucky. You're the type of woman who deserves more." Bo leaned away to get a better look at the blonde. She waited for what felt like an eternity for Lauren's response. Light brown eyes stared back at her, tentative and yearning.

"Careful now, Miss Dennis. You're making it easy to fall for you."

"Then my plan is working."

Lauren felt Bo's smile on her skin and her resistance to ease, ease away.

And that's how love begins, in real life and in the movies, with deep, breathy sighs packed with promises and the hope that this may be the love that stays.

* * *

Tamsin fumed in the undersized and hideously upholstered wingback chair in their stateroom. "If it was so magical, why are you here instead of with her?" she berated Lauren. "You make her sound like the Venus _fucking_ DeMilo!"

Lauren had kicked off her shoes but remained fully clothed in her gown, as she lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. "I could ask the same for you."

"The butter bar? What a snooze fest! But you—you got to first base."

"I got cold feet."

"Lauren Lewis you're an idiot."

Lauren draped an arm over her eyes. "I blew it, didn't I?"

"You want some advice, Doc?"

Lauren peeked out from under her forearm. "Do I have a choice?"

Tamsin rose and grabbed the mink overcoat that Lauren had unceremoniously tossed onto the twin bed next to hers, and held it in an outstretched arm toward the cabin door. "Captain Lauren Lewis, by order of the U.S. Navy, I feel it is my duty to make sure this gets returned to its rightful owner."

Lauren laughed but stayed in bed.

Tamsin shot her a stern look. "I'm not kidding and I'm not letting you hide out in here. We have a mission to reunite this very expensive coat with the looker who owns it."

Tamsin gripped Lauren's elbow like a vise as they marched down the long passageway leading to the elevator and the upper deck. Tamsin had shoved her out the door with one silk shoe on her foot, the other in her hand.

"What's your hurry," Lauren huffed, hobbling and skipping while trying to get her foot into her shoe.

"One, a dame like that is a magnet for vultures just waiting to pounce."

"Vultures don't pounce. They're scavengers. Not like hawks or other predatory birds that actually—"

"—enough with the lectures, Lewis. A bird's a bird!" Tamsin tugged her again before coming to a full stop. "Have you looked at yourself? No? Because you haven't looked this idiotic since you-know-when."

"I just met her," she answered, slipping the mink around her shoulders.

"And that's my point. You never meet anybody. And now…" She spun Lauren around to see her own reflection in the closed elevator door. "You're the cat who just ate the fat canary. Let yourself go." The elevator dinged. "Taxi's here. Get in."

They circled the deck and it was cold now, colder than before.

"She's not here." Lauren blew a stray lock of hair from her forehead. "Can we go now? This feels a little desperate."

"Uh-uh. There's the ladder to the upper deck. C'mon."

"No, Tamsin. This is stupid."

"Nothing ventured, nothing lost or something…" Tamsin answered, with her eyes straight ahead. She turned to see Lauren stock still ten feet behind.

" _You_ check," Lauren huffed.

"Me? That makes total sense," Tamsin sneered.

"What if she's there?"

Tamsin shot her the _are-you-kidding-me_ look. "Then mission accomplished, obviously."

"Baby steps, Tamsin. Please?" Lauren clutched Bo's coat to the front of her neck and spoke rapidly. "If she's there, wave at me from the top of the stairs. Subtle, though. Be subtle. Then I'll come up. In that way, you can get a good look for yourself. I'd look like a school girl if we walked up together."

Tamsin crossed her arms.

Lauren nodded and squeezed her eyes shut, something she did only when she was nervous—meaning, rarely.

"Subtle. You want me to be subtle."

"That seems unnatural to you, I know," Lauren deadpanned.

Tamsin uncrossed her arms and strode closer to Lauren, stabbing her shoulder with a pointed finger. "You better be here when I come back."

"Rooted, like a tree. Now go!"

* * *

Tamsin climbed the steep steps to the upper deck. It was dark and she resisted the sudden gust of wind that tore through her blonde hair and grabbed the hem of her dress, lifting the gown almost to her thighs. She fisted the loose fabric of her dress and squinted into the darkness, giving herself a moment to get her bearings. Her eyes slowly scanned the length and width of the wide-open deck, and roamed the length of the railing that encircled the promenade. A pair of tarped lifeboats—one each on the port and starboard sides hung high above the railings—the only physical interruption of what would be a magnificent view from ship to shore during the daylight. It was all shadows from where she stood, and breezy. She walked a little further, sensed nothing, and prepared to turn back until a glint of something bright caught the corner of her eye. Tamsin scooted beneath the nearest lifeboat and focused on the opposite side of the deck. Even from this distance, she made out two silhouettes standing very close together. She palmed the railing tip-toeing slowly and quietly, following its curve to get closer, close enough to hear their whispers. The figures were obviously female and looked too cozy in each other's arms to be having a simple chat. She inspected them carefully: some bad business with platinum hair dressed in a short pea coat; and the other— _what a sensation!_ She lived up to all the hoopla of Lauren's swooning and drooling. A real classy baby doll with a set of gams—elegant in a gown that fit like a second skin. Tamsin summed her up thusly: pampered, a ripe, expensive cad in a designer frock. Just the frivolous hood ornament she would prescribe as a cure for her best friend's melancholy—if not for one thing: she was trading kisses with the cigarette girl not even an hour after promising Lauren the moon. As for the mink coat? Tamsin guessed she would hardly miss it. _Miss Park Avenue_ probably had a menagerie of dead animals at the ready to toss at the next available showgirl. _What a first class creep!_ Lauren was going get an earful! She had seen enough and was about to skedaddle when the dark haired woman caught her attention for a second time. A thin thread of light passed from the lips of the blonde to the other woman's open and receptive mouth. Tamsin witnessed the high-class dame's eyes glowing a supernatural shade of blue. _A succubus! Not on my watch!_ Tamsin turned in disgust not caring at all whether her movements were subtle.

Lauren rushed Tamsin as she jumped from the last step of the ladder. Tamsin avoided eye contact, focusing on the wooden double doors that lead them to the warmth inside.

"Well?" Lauren chased after her, still clutching the coat.

"It's too cold for anyone to be up there," Tamsin answered in a flat tone.

"Are you sure? Did you cover the whole deck?"

Tamsin jerked the door open leading inside, suddenly impatient. "I said, no one's there!" The finality in her voice startled Lauren and provoked a look of disappointment. The door banged shut.

"What happened?!"

Tamsin softened and gently draped an arm around Lauren's shoulder. "You were right. It was a fool's errand. I should have listened to you."

"Do you ever?" Lauren searched Tamsin's ice-blue eyes for any hint of deception. In the end, she accepted her apology. Something vaguely resembling a smile crossed Lauren's lips. "Well, at least we tried."

Tamsin opened the door and waited for Lauren to enter before she paused, peered, and scowled towards the upper deck. There was no way she was going to tell Lauren that she was nearly the victim of a succubus seduction, that she'd dodged a real life lady killer if she ever saw one; and Tamsin was going to make damn sure that that _succubus_ wouldn't get anywhere near Lauren again, not on this ship. Not ever.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Kravn. Best. Beta. Ever. Leave a review, if you could be so kind.


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